


As Good as it Gets

by helsinkibaby



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-20
Updated: 2004-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:51:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby





	As Good as it Gets

Face still flushed with sleep, Sara makes her way through the house, bare feet sinking into the carpet of the hallway, hand clutching the banister as she descends the stairs. A faint voice guides her on her way, through the hall, past the living room and on towards the kitchen. Once she passes the living room door, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee serves as an additional guide, and she smiles, both from the thoughts of a jolt of caffeine and the knowledge of what she's going to see when she walks in the door.

Then she walks in the door and her smile only widens, because familiar a sight as this is, there are some days that it's better than others.

And today?

This is as good as it gets.

Warrick stands, his back to her, looking out the French windows to the garden beyond, the garden that thrives despite their busy schedules and her less-than-green thumb – Grams, she thinks, is definitely a miracle worker. From her stance at the door, Sara is barely aware that late morning sunshine bathes the lawn, a slight breeze moving the flowers back and forth, and it does register that it would be a nice day to get out, go for a walk before they have to go into work.

But the exterior of the house isn't her main priority. How could it be?

It's much easier to concentrate on the man in front of her, barefoot like her, clad only in a pair of blue denim jeans. They're the oldest pair he has, faded and worn to the palest of pale blues, soft as velvet against his skin. She's run her hands over those many a time, the texture most inviting to the touch, but not, she knows, as inviting as the smooth skin of his back. That's familiar territory to her by now, every square millimetre traced and mapped by her hands, her lips, committed to memory in a way that even now has a current of tenderness, and something else besides, unfurling in her stomach. The something else becomes more prominent when he shifts on his feet, the muscles in his back rippling, just like they'd rippled under her touch countless times, the most recent only a few hours ago.

Suddenly, she can't stand to be across the room from him any more, has to be beside him, touching him, so she moves, hissing slightly as she makes contact with the tiled floor, cold against the soles of her feet. The noise is loud in the quiet of the room, and he turns, just enough that she can see the tattoo on his left arm – another well-mapped landmark – and the smile on his face, in his eyes, as he takes in her form, in particular, what she's wearing.

He's always had a weakness for her in one of his shirts and damn all else.

He smiles, but he doesn't speak. Instead, his gaze flickers down to the baby in his arms, the baby who's a mirror image of him, right down to the wide green eyes that turn on her mother, right down to the smile – albeit toothless – that lights up her face. Their daughter doesn't make any moves to go to Sara though, is a daddy's girl to the marrow of her bones, content to stay in his arms, her head against his chest.

Some mothers might be upset by that, but not Sara. She likes to think that that trait just proves that while Emma might be a daddy's girl, she's also her mother's daughter.

Going to them, she stands beside Warrick, arm slipping around his waist, the flat of her palm sliding up his back, making a wide arc up and around before coming back down, resting just above the waistband of his jeans. He shoots her a look out of the corner of his eye, his lips twitching, and she can almost hear him warning her not to start something they're not going to be able to finish.

For once, she does as she's not-quite-told, her hand staying where it is, her head dropping to the bare skin of his shoulder, brushing a quick kiss on the skin. He tilts his head so that his is resting against the top of hers, and she closes her eyes, relishing the feel of him, the touch of his skin against hers.

And she smiles again, because she knows that she was right earlier on, that this really is as good as it gets.


End file.
